So many different threads that are interesting in this Sarah. I think a lot about how the language of my paid/ professional work seeps into my writing and alters it in ways that limit my imagination. That isn’t quite what you’re saying but it made me think of that.
I am heartened that you aren’t apologetic for your commitment to your creative work. More to mull over, thanks for writing this!
It took me over 600 pages of short-form notes with long-form intent to realize thar the more I wrote, the further away from "a book" it became.
I'm still defying the most basic wisdom of "picking an audience," so I spend most of my time spinning out in a cascade of objection anticipation and response. It's strange to know that to write anything, even as little as I do, I have to let it (mostly) consume me. Anymore, I drag social conversations awkwardly toward "the things that must be considered."
At least I can revel vicariously in others living their lives, but I don't seem to wish it for myself or even fear the regret that I know will show up eventually. Tis a strange personal privilege to have lived half a life aimless, but always with a clear sense of direction. Some of the neurotics are new, but not unexpected and oddly comforting.
So many different threads that are interesting in this Sarah. I think a lot about how the language of my paid/ professional work seeps into my writing and alters it in ways that limit my imagination. That isn’t quite what you’re saying but it made me think of that.
I am heartened that you aren’t apologetic for your commitment to your creative work. More to mull over, thanks for writing this!
Professional deformation is real!
Woah. Now that is a familiar sentiment.
It took me over 600 pages of short-form notes with long-form intent to realize thar the more I wrote, the further away from "a book" it became.
I'm still defying the most basic wisdom of "picking an audience," so I spend most of my time spinning out in a cascade of objection anticipation and response. It's strange to know that to write anything, even as little as I do, I have to let it (mostly) consume me. Anymore, I drag social conversations awkwardly toward "the things that must be considered."
At least I can revel vicariously in others living their lives, but I don't seem to wish it for myself or even fear the regret that I know will show up eventually. Tis a strange personal privilege to have lived half a life aimless, but always with a clear sense of direction. Some of the neurotics are new, but not unexpected and oddly comforting.
Thanks for sharing!
May you always know your exit point.